The Bartender at Benny's
by Xazz
Summary: Benny's is a bar that caters to the local mob. Problem is the owner isn't always on time when paying his dues meaning Desmond has to deal with the mob enforcers when they come by to shake his boss down. One time a different enforcer shows up and really someone shouldn't allowed to be scary AND be that hot.
1. Chapter 1

Desmond knew he was putting himself at risk when he took the job of Benny's pub. It was a pretty upscale place for a pub. Made men came here as often as Joe Blows and the tips ranged from not getting shaken down to a grand or more depending on who came in.

Benny's paid the Russian mafia for 'protection', and Benny was usually pretty good at paying his dues. Desmond usually just kept his head down. He was just the bartender, he wanted nothing to do with the mob and honestly he'd rat his boss out in a second to the Russians if they came calling because Benny _sometimes_ didn't pay his due.

Desmond had been working at the pub for a few years. He knew the big movers who came since Benny's also had a really nice restaurant upstairs that Desmond also serviced with drinks. He was the senior bartender at this point and most of gangsters knew of him and all the bag boys and enforcers knew him by name as well. When Benny himself wasn't around to pay dues Desmond was the one who had to do it, as he was also one of the most senior staff. He was also trustworthy. He just wanted to come in, work, and then leave. In a pinch he could be his own bouncer and everyone in Benny's knew that Desmond wasn't some light weight pretty boy just because he 'was easy on the eyes' (the amount of times he'd been hit on by drunk, male, gangsters and gang bangers was too high to count) and had a mean right hook if you tried to cause him any real trouble. He also didn't snitch to the cops and let them pay him under the table.

But sometimes... Sometimes Benny didn't pay his dues. The usual enforcer was a big, scary, guy named Connor with arms like steak sides. He was nice to Desmond when he showed up at least, but was painfully professional. When Connor came around Desmond just told him what he knew. The two had known each other for a few years since Connor had started on this level in the mob. He knew he was going to be seeing Connor soon since Benny had missed the last two months of dues.

It was slow when the door opened. Desmond and two waiters were the only people in the pub. Light spilled inside the dark pub and a man he didn't recognize but _very_ obviously the mafia's enforcer came inside. The door closed with a click.

The guy dressed like Connor and wore dark sunglasses, his suit pretty much immaculate. He wasn't as big as Connor but he was razor sharp and looked plenty dangerous. He walked towards the bar, pulling off his sunglasses as he did. The waiters looked away, they knew it was mafia and knew not to get involved. Desmond wanted to turn away too, but he couldn't.

"You Benny?" the man asked. Up close he was way scary and had dangerous eyes.

"No, that'd be my boss. I'm Desmond, where's Connor?" he asked and held his hand out, hoping for a shake.

"Home," they didn't shake Desmond's hand. "Where's Benny? He's late," and _wow_ this guy was seriously scary. He also was even more down to business to Connor. At least Connor Desmond could have a bit of a conversation with, usually to gauge how much trouble his boss was in.

"Haven't seen him all week," he said truthfully. "Must have known they were sending a guy with such a _charming_ personality," and the enforcer gave him this withering look that made Desmond's balls try and climb up into his body.

"Where's Benny?" they asked again.

"He isn't here okay. Hasn't been in all week."

The enforcer gave him a narrow eyed look before turning away and pulled out his cellphone. After a few seconds, in which he was clearly trying to figure it out he put it up to his ear. He acted like an old person with his cellphone. Then they started talking in Russian. Connor could speak _some_ Russian, but it just made him sound like an idiot. This guy could _speak_ Russian. Desmond had to admit he sounded pretty good too. He'd come to appreciate other languages since working at Benny's since both the Italian and the Russian mafia frequented the restaurant and pub. Italian was pretty hot too, but he liked Russian accents better. This guy didn't have a Russian accent though, it was firmly American.

Then he finished the phone call and put it away. "Where could I find Benny?" he asked.

"His house? I know his wife has custody of his kids. He could be visiting them."

"Where?"

"I dunno. He's my boss, not my dad," Desmond shrugged.

The enforcer frowned deeply, "You see him you tell him Antov is looking for him," it came out practically at a growl. Kinda scary. Kinda hot. Scary hot? Was that a thing that was allowed to happen? Was Desmond allowed to be both turned on and absolutely terrified by the big middle eastern man who worked for the Russian mafia? Was that something something that could happen? Because he was. He was a lot.

Said scary enforcer left before Desmond could say anything else though. Damn. He wanted his name.

—

It was a few months before anything else happened. Benny paid his dues on time and neither nameless scary enforcer or Connor had to come around. He supposed that was a good thing though since when Benny missed his dues too many times Connor sometimes said Desmond might need to find a new job. Meaning Benny would be dead and the bar closed. Desmond never liked the sound of that as he hated trying to find a job, but he never really had trouble finding it so he wasn't too worried. Didn't mean it wasn't annoying as hell though.

Tonight the bar was swamped. There were criminals and normal people here tonight and they were ordering a lot of drinks. Desmond was eyeing some Russians who were eyeing some Irish. The Irish were eying the Russians right back. At least the Italians were behaving themselves and playing pool in the back, minding their own business and not making trouble.

He could smell a shit storm brewing between the Russians and Irish though. The knew the gangs had been pretty stand offish lately. Under normal circumstances, unless they were at war, the various mobs in the city didn't go out of their ways to kill each other. Desmond was pretty up to date with the happenings of mob politics too because of his work and there was always that _one_ lonely guy at the bar at the end of the night who was drunk and wouldn't go home and talked Desmond's ear off, simultaneously hitting on him too not realizing he as actually a man. Or maybe they did and didn't care. Desmond didn't know.

What he did know was that the Irish and the Russians had been slowly having a go at each other. It wasn't full war yet, but left alone two gangbangers from the opposing side would probably pull a gun. While they weren't alone here he wasn't liking the way they were looking at each other. He gave a heads up to the wait staff in case they weren't seeing it and told the two other bartenders working with him. The girl who'd just started a week ago looked _freaked_ by it, but Jerry, who'd been with them a while, just shrugged it off. He saw one of the waitresses go up to the bouncer and tell him and while he didn't move he was now checking out the Irish and Russians like Desmond.

Desmond's shift was winding down and nothing beyond bad vibes had passed between the two groups. Desmond was cleaning up his area, telling Jerry that if something happened to make sure to get the new girl, so new Desmond didn't bother to remember her name, she wouldn't last anyway, under the bar so nothing happened, when it happened.

While the normal din of the bar didn't change in volume it changed in intensity. Desmond cut off mid sentence and his eyes went to the group of five Irish boys who had been drinking whiskey all night. One of them got up and Desmond watched as though in slow motion as they went over to the table of three Russians and started talking to them. Okay. No big de-

One of the Russians punched the Irish right in the mouth. He went down like a house of cards. Desmond ducked instinctively at that, yanking Jerry down with him. New girl also ducked down a moment after. He knew they were probably all packing heat and when he peaked out he saw that thankfully they were only having a brawl. He looked towards the bouncers who were making their way to the fight. The two gangs were all for beating the shit out of each other though and when the bouncers showed up were all for beating up _them_ too.

Oh this was not good. So not good.

"Should we be doing something?" Jerry asked him.

"Just keep your head down," Desmond said.

"I fucking quit," the new girl said.

"Okay, nice to have you. Wanna finish your shift first?" Desmond asked. He'd done this before honestly, people quitting once a fight broke out.

"Fuck you," she hissed.

"A no would have been enough you know," Desmond was sorely unimpressed with her attitude. "Finish your shift, get a full pay check, don't be a bitch about it," he continued.

"Uh, Mark," Jerry said. Desmond didn't go by his real name. The entire place knew him as Mark Anthony. Well _he_ thought it was clever. No one else got the allusion.

"You might wanna uh…" he pointed up. One of the Irish guys was trying to jump the bar.

Desmond leapt to his feet and shoved him off. "No," he said sternly.

"Gimmie a drin' bar boy," they slurred, wow they were _really_ drunk.

"You've had enough," and he desperately was trying to signal to the bouncers that he needed help. No good though as they had their hands full with the Russians and the rest of the Irish and the two bouncers from _upstairs_ had joined in as well. Really they were trying to break up the fight more than actually fight themselves. Desmond was on his own.

Oh great.

"Gimmie a drin'," they slurred again and once more tried to climb over the bar. The bar itself had become vacant though the rest of the pub was still full of people, watching, talking, he saw the Italians taking bets. Great, just what he needed! He swallowed and the Irish guy was on the bar. Shit shit shit!

He couldn't do anything else. He threw a punch. It hit the guy right in the jaw and his top few knuckles hurt. The mobster went down and Desmond shook his hand as he topped off the bar. That _hurt_.

"You okay?" Jerry asked.

"Yeah. Yeah," he nodded, breathless. By now the four bouncers had broken up the fight and were in the process of kicking the gangsters out. Desmond made sure they saw the one he'd hit and one of them literally grabbed him by the back of the collar and hauled his ass out.

"Hey," Desmond looked up. It was one of the Italians. "Gimmie a beer," he said.

"Right," he looked at their table and quickly he remembered seeing this guy before. It didn't take much to figure out what he was drinking and brought out a Sam Adams, they were all drinking Sam Adams. He handed it to the Italian and they wandered off, tipping the bottle at him.

"Hey Mark," Jerry said.

"Yeah?"

"Lisa's gone."

"Who?"

"Lisa, new girl," he said.

"God damn it. I wanted to go home early," he grumbled.

"You can still, I can call Henry."

"No, no, it's fine. I'll stay," he sighed and reopened his till, wouldn't be the first time he had to stay late after a brawl that scared off the new kid. The bus boys and a dishwasher were cleaning up the mess, the bar resumed it's regular activities.

—

Desmond yawned as he left the bar. It was almost three and he was ready to get home. He started walking towards the subway, wrapping his jacket around him. It was spring and a chill lingered in the morning. He had to be in at Benny's again at five, and he had stuff to do tomorrow. He was mentally figuring how long he could sleep and still have enough time to do the groceries and the laundry when someone started walking behind him.

He thought nothing of it at first, though when he took a turn onto a side street to get to the subway station faster and they did too he began to get more alert and awake. The street was pretty well lit, but he knew that really didn't mean jack shit. He crossed the street and a car zoomed past behind him. Whoever was following him also crossed the street. Desmond put his hands into his jacket and wrapped one hand around his switch blade. He didn't really know how to use it, but it was a good deterrent if this turned back.

And it looked like it would when another man stepped out of an overhang and into the sidewalk in front of him. Desmond didn't stop walking, he just kept on, head up, watching, alert. He wasn't going to get mugged.

"Where do you think you're going?" the man in front of him asked and as he got closer reached out and shoved Desmond back. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Just going home fellas," he said, hands still in his pockets, "I don't want any trouble."

"Yeah well you asked for some earlier pretty boy," and the guy in front of him took out a knife and flipped it open. Shit, it was the Irish. The guy in front of him had a bruise on his jaw, the one he'd punched.

"I don't want any trouble," he said again, holding out one hand and walking backwards. But that didn't do him any good as there was a guy behind him too. He turned and saw three more guys, two had knives. One had a _gun_. Oh boy.

There was nothing for it. He booked it, sprinting across the street. He heard them give chase. He needed to make it to a main street, where there were people. But the side street he took didn't intersect a main street for another few blocks. He was so boned, and not in the sexy way.

Thankfully he was in good shape and could keep up a good speed for a while, but the Irish were still chasing him like a pack of dogs. He heard them ease off and glanced back. The one with the gun was pointing it at him. Desmond just _kept_ running. The likelihood he'd miss was seriously in Desmond's favor. A shot rang out, scaring some pigeons on a window sill. It missed. More shots.

Fire suddenly laced up Desmond's leg and with a cry he fell. His face smashed into the pavement as he went down. His leg was _on fire_ and it wouldn't go out. He was pretty sure he was screaming because it just wouldn't stop and he knew he'd been shot. He'd never been shot before, but that was the only feeling it could have been. He tried to move, to get away, because the Irish were walking towards him _laughing_. Oh those fuckers. There were tears he didn't feel shedding streaming down his face as he tried to get to his feet and hobble away.

Someone kicked him in the back and he fell forward again. The gangsters laughed. "This'll teach you kid," one said and leaned down to grab his jacket and turned him over.

"Fuck you!" he screamed and lashed out with his switch knife. The man yelled as Desmond slashed his face and blood went flying. He tried to get away, scrambling, his leg bleeding heavily.

"You little fucker," another spat and hit him where he wasn't looking. "You wanna cut my mate's face? I'll gut you like the swine you are," and then he cursed at Desmond in Irish. Desmond was still a little dazed from being hit across the head. "Pin 'im," he heard them say and the others grabbed his limbs, including the hurt one and pinned him. The one who was speaking grabbed the switch blade out of his hand and put a knee on his chest. It made it hard to breathe. "Now, _smile_," he said, his breath smelled horrible of alcohol and cabbage.

Desmond felt the tip of the knife touch his skin, above his lips, next to his nose. He tried to scream but other than where he was being cut the big Irish man had his hand over his mouth. The man sliced through his face and then down his lips and he felt it on his gums and teeth. Desmond _screamed_ against his hand and his eyes rolled. They laughed and put the edge of the blade against the edge of his mouth to give him a glasgow smile.

"Hey!" he heard someone yell distantly. "What are you pig heads doing here?"

The man with the knife looked up. "Shit," another said, they were all looking, "it's the Russians."

"That's right," a different man said, he had a strange accent, but weirdly familiar. "And this is _our_ turf. Fuck off you pig stickers."

Desmond gave a shaky breath of relief when the knife was removed from him mouth. "What's it to you bitch?" he asked.

"Our turf. Get the fuck out before we make you regret it."

"Oh, I'm shaking in my boots, aye boys?" and they all laughed. "There only two of you, an' five o us."

"Altair, my friend, show them why they don't come onto Russian blocks without good reason." Desmond heard a gun cock and then fire. One of the Irish guys screamed like a dying animal, clutching his shoulder, rolling onto the ground and off him. "Now. _Get out_," they hissed.

"Fuck you," another shot, another man was shot and Desmond could move his arms, not that it did any good.

"Now _go_, before he shoots all of you," the Russian, who didn't sound Russian, said. "Altair here enjoys shooting fish in a barrel."

"Fuck you," but the Irish man got off him. "Oi, get up you fuckers," he spat and he grabbed his mates, even the shot ones, and ran off, tail between their legs. Desmond gasped when they left, finally able to really breathe and with a sob rolled over onto his side, wanting to vomit, but he hadn't eaten for hours and there was nothing.

"Hey," one of the Russians was crouching next to him. Desmond looked up.

"Connor?" he asked, unable to believe it was actually the scary enforcer who made sure Benny paid his dues.

"The one and only. You okay?"

"No," it hurt _so much_ to talk and now he was glad he couldn't vomit, it would hurt so bad. He was bleeding heavily from the face. "Shot," he muttered and grabbed his leg.

"And that's a wicked cut on your face," and Connor helped him up. He groaned as he got to his feet. "Altair," Connor said, "bring the car around." Desmond looked to see who this_ '_Altair' was, the one who liked shooting Irish mobsters. Oh. The replacement scary enforcer Desmond had seen the one time.

"You sure we should be doing this?"

"Oi, who's the leader here? Go get the fucking car, we're going to the hospital."

Altair stared a moment, then nodded and picked the spent shells up from the ground and went to a black car down the street. He got in and drove towards them. Connor opened the back door and put Desmond in it, handing him a box of tissues. "Try and stem the bleeding," he said. Desmond nodded numbly and gently pressed a wad of tissues to his face. Connor got in the front seat. "Hospital, drive," he ordered.

The drive was silence save for Desmond's slightly harsh breathing as he tried to get his heart under control. Not the easiest thing when he was still bleeding from the leg. They arrived at the hospital ten minutes later though. Connor told Altair to keep the car running and he helped Desmond inside.

Thankfully the nurse at the front desk saw that Desmond needed to go to the ER, and no it couldn't actually wait. At least that's how Desmond remembered it. He chose not to remember Connor threatening the nurse. The mobster helped him sit on the gurney they rolled out and he laid down. Everything still hurt. They put something over his face and a moment later he was asleep. Thank god.

—

Desmond woke up in the hospital. It was light out and his first thought was 'shit I still have to go to work'. It took him several more moments to realize he was, in fact, in the hospital, and that no, he didn't have to go to work because he'd been fucking _shot_.

There was a large bandage taped to the left side of his face, over where his face had been cut, and Desmond could feel stitches, tight and neat, holding his mouth together. Doing anything that involved moving his mouth was going to be a pain for a very long time. His leg wasn't in a cast, but it was raised up a bit and below the knee was wrapped in more bandages for about six inches. It didn't hurt, so that was good, his mouth didn't hurt either actually.

He must have been in _really_ good drugs.

Then he realized he wasn't alone. He blinked a few times and saw that replacement-scary-hot-enforcer-who-made-Benny-pay-his-dues was there. Also known as… he raked his brain, it was all sort of hazy. Then he remembered. Altair. The guy who liked shooting fish in a barrel. Right. That guy. He was there.

"Hello?" Desmond croaked. The mobster looked up, he didn't look pleased to be there in the slightest. "Uh…"

"Good, you're awake," Altair said and stood up from the hospital chair.

"What're you doing here?" Desmond asked tiredly. Then he cursed, "Shit," he couldn't afford his hospital visit. He had no insurance and he made enough from Benny's to cover rent and food and that was just barely. He'd be paying off this hospital visit for the rest of his life.

He must have said that all out loud, "The family is taking care of your bill," he said.

"What?" he stared, blinking. The _Russian mob_ was footing his medical bill? "What's the catch?"

"None. It's on us you got hurt, cause of that stupid fight that happened at Benny's. Antov doesn't let shit like that fly. Our fuck up, our fix."

"Okay," he said slowly, "What are _you_ doing here? Other than to tell me that," he wanted to go back to sleep, but he knew he needed to stay awake a bit longer.

"The Irish aren't happy."

"No shit," he grumbled.

"They think you disrespected them and are ready to shake you down."

"Wonderful," Desmond groaned.

"I'm here to make sure nothing happens."

Desmond blinked, "Wait… the Russian mob is not only paying my hospital bill, but protecting me. There is some catch here and either you ain't telling me or it is really bad."

"Nope," he said.

"Don't play shit with me Altair," he growled.

"It's nothing, _Mark_," and Desmond paled to dead white. Shit, shit _SHIT_. Altair just rose his brows at him, "You want me to call a nurse? You look pretty rough."

"Yeah," he wheezed, "Yeah a nurse, that'd be great," and he looked away from Altair. Altair called a nurse and a man in scrubs showed up, checked the machines he was hooked up to and then, deciding he was fine and asked Desmond if he was in any pain, gave him something to sleep. Desmond was glad he could close his eyes and not look at the replacement-scary-hot-enforcer-who-made-Benny-pay-his-dues Altair any more. He felt sort of ill.

—

The next time he woke up Altair wasn't there. Oh good. He also had to go pee. He tried moving his leg. Okay, he could do that. He swung his legs out of the bed and gingerly lowered himself down onto the floor. Desmond felt a little dizzy, but he could stand, though he had to hold onto something. There was a cane near his bed, obvious something he'd have to use a while and with it he could waddle to the bathroom.

He sat down on the john with a sigh, grumbling about his open backed night gown thing. "Mark?" he heard Altair suddenly call his name, startling him. "Mark?" he called again.

"I'm in here," he called because no need to make the replacement-scary-hot-enforcer-who-made-Benny-pay-his-dues worry about where he was, especially if he was supposed to be watching him.

"How'd you get in there by yourself?" Altair asked, right outside the door.

"I fucking walked. Good god go away I can't go with you talking to me you weirdo," Desmond bitched. It wasn't his fault really, he'd been shot, face cut open and on pain killers that weren't as good as he hoped right now because talking _hurt_. "Ow," he added to himself lowly and gently reached up and touched the side of his mouth where the thick bandage covered his face.

Once he was done he hobbled out of the bathroom. Altair was there, in the plastic hospital chair. Desmond sat on the bed but he was tired and things were standing to hurt. "Oi," he called, "help me." Altair just raised his eye brow at him in a 'yeah right I will' sort of way. "You want me to tell daddy the Russians were discourteous?" he asked and now _Altair_ paled. He stood up and helped Desmond swing his legs up onto the bed. "There, that wasn't so hard was it."

"Don't push your luck," Altair grumbled.

"Or what?" Desmond asked. Fuck if they knew who he was he wasn't going to be pushed around by some stupid mafia enforcer. Altair scowled at him but didn't follow up on his threat. Instead he grabbed the blankets and folded them over Desmond's leg. He then called a nurse when Desmond asked and she gave him some more whatever amazing thing didn't make it hurt to talk, and sent him to sleep again.

—

This happened several more times. Desmond woke up when nature called and Altair would help him in and out of bed. Sometimes he'd stay awake and watch the TV in the room. The nurses brought him food, a few days like this passed. He'd be here a bit longer though, until he could easily support himself with just the cane. Sometimes he'd wake up and Altair wasn't there, instead it was another mobster, never the same one, and didn't talk to Desmond and didn't seem to know who he was as they didn't help him.

A week passed and one morning Desmond woke up to a new face in the room. "Shit," he said.

"Shit is right little bro," said his brother looking down at him. Altair was still in the room, staring at his book, not paying attention to them.

"Uh-

"Lets get the excuses out of the way," Duncan said. His brother looked the picture perfect image of someone in his position.

"I don't really have any except I got jumped," he said.

"Yeah, so we heard," his big brother leaned down and pulled back the tape on his mouth. "Did a number on you," he said.

"Yeah, they did," he admitted with a grunt.

"The family's told us they're paying for your bills, since it was their fault."

"It was," he said.

"Okay," Duncan looked at Altair in the chair, "What's he doing here?"

"Told me to make sure the Irish didn't try anything stupid again," Desmond said.

"Ah. Well, the Irish have already been made aware of the situation. They were _very_ sorry to hear that you're in the hospital," he looked around the empty hospital room. "I'll have to tell them to send flowers."

"Duncan," he said in a warning way.

"What?"

"Don't," he growled.

"Hey, you're my baby bro, I'm just looking out for you," he ruffled Desmond's hair.

"I don't want flowers from the fucking _Irish_ of all people. God, they're the ones who put me here."

"Chocolates than?"

"Uhg, fuck you. What are you doing here anyway?"

"Making sure you're all right," he said. "I know dad's giving you space while you get this stupid rebellion figured out. But we're always here for you."

"It isn't stupid. I don't want to be a part of it. Simple truth."

"I thought so too," Duncan said, and Desmond remembered. God did he remember the shit storm Duncan threw when their dad came clean to them. Neither of them wanted anything to do with it, and they'd rebelled, but Duncan had gone back. Life on your own was hard when you were used to living in money and never had to worry about when the next time you'd eat would be. Desmond still wanted nothing to do with it.

"I don't need daddy to look after me," Desmond growled.

"I know," Duncan said. "Which is why I'm here and not him. Now, how much longer are you going to be here?"

"I dunno, another few weeks probably," Desmond sighed. "I mean, I got _shot_," and he also motioned to his face, "These'll come out in another week probably, face wounds heal quickly."

"Great," Duncan nodded. "Come home when you get out."

"Fuck no," Desmond scowled.

"This isn't a request," Duncan said, hands on his hips.

"I don't want to."

"Don't care."

"Fuck you."

Duncan gave him a light smack on the head, "Don't use that tone with me baby brother," he said sternly. "This is dad talking, not me. I tried to convince him to let you stay out, let you work this out your own, but ma's worried all over you and wants you home."

"Oh," well if it was _ma_ that was an entirely different thing.

"Besides, you need to come see your nephew or I swear to god I am sending him to terrorize you," Desmond rolled his eyes, unimpressed.

"Fine," he sighed. "I'll come home for a bit when I get out," he promised.

"Good," Duncan ruffled his hair again. "I'll give a talk to those Irish again-

"_Duncan_," he groaned.

"See you in a few weeks. Give us a call when you need a plane ticket," and he leaned down and kissed Desmond on both cheeks before going to the door. "And you," he said to Altair who finally looked up, "keep it to yourself." Altair said nothing to Duncan's veiled threat, but it was clear he was understood. Then Duncan left.

Desmond groaned and rubbed his face. Great. Just what he needed. He hadn't seen any of his family in nearly five years. The way he liked it honestly. He didn't like reminding himself he was a Miles. Being a Miles got back doors opened and most mobs to pay attention, since you didn't cross the Miles family, because they did everything and were everywhere, literally. He didn't like thinking about the stuff his dad did, his brother did, or what they wanted _him_ to do. It wasn't like he didn't talk to them. He sent them emails, called his mom every few weeks, sent christmas cards and birthday presents. He'd been there for his brother's wedding three years ago. But that had been brief, only a few hours, and then he'd gone again half way through the reception, feeling totally scivved out by brushing shoulders with government officials from various countries as well as mafia leaders from both the States and internationally known. He'd visited to see his nephew when he'd been born two years ago, or more Duncan and Kate had shown up at his door and Duncan had dragged him out to spend time with them and meet the new baby.

Now he was supposed to _go home_. Home. To fucking South Dakota. Uhg. Not that he didn't like South Dakota, it was beautiful and you could go hunting in the hills and their house (mansion who the fuck was he kidding) had stables for horses. He sort of… missed riding horses. He hadn't been home in a while though, or seen his mother, or his _father_. Oh this was going to be _soooo_ much fun.

"You okay?" he looked up when Altair spoke.

"Peachy," he grumbled. "Call a nurse, my leg hurts," he lied. He really just wanted to be numb and sleep. Better that way. Altair called a nurse and she gave him something and put him to sleep. Thank god.

—

For the next week he was just cranky. He didn't want to go home. He liked living on his own. But he knew he didn't have a choice. He could go on his own or his dad would send men in Italian suits to get him on a plane. Fuck everything. He knew his dad would only do it because his ma wanted him home. He'd been good so far about letting Desmond have his space, figure out what he wanted to do with his life, and no doubted wanted to have him home and in the family business.

Altair helped a great deal honestly. He was basically a wall, and Desmond could just unload on him and the enforcer never complained. He didn't talk about anything sensitive, just general family bitching that Altair found amusing at times, and other times offered some quality bitching right back.

He also helped when Desmond got the stitches in his mouth taken out and it was hard to eat and talk all over again and it was just _pain_ the entire time basically. At least his mouth was in one piece though he had the start of a glasgow smile on the left side of his mouth to go with the cut through his lips.

But the best part, oh, really, the best part was when some guys came in. Altair was out, getting food from the outside because Desmond had had _enough_ of the shitty hospital food. He'd promised to smuggle hamburgers in and Desmond kept waiting and it seemed to take _forever_.

Finally the door opened, "Took you long enough to-" he shut up though when the man who came into the room wasn't Altair, or anyone he recognized. In fact, they were the opposite of friendly and had a gun, pointed at his face. Desmond stared.

"You Desmond Miles?" they asked.

"No," he shook his head a lot. "I'm Mark," he swallowed.

"Hello Desmond," they said with a smile.

"You have me confused with someone else," he insisted.

"You're coming with me," he said.

"What? Why? Who're you?" Desmond demanded. Then he realized, oh shit.; this was one of his dad's rivals. They were here because Desmond was a lose end they could use against his family. He swallowed.

"Get up," the man with the gun said.

"You know I was shot right?" he asked.

"Yeah. Meaning you won't give me any trouble. Now get up," and they threw a bag at him, "and get dressed." Desmond swallowed and with trembling hands opened the bag. Inside was a pair of black pants, and a black shirt. The man snapped at him in some spanish language, clearly to hurry up. Desmond paled. Oh _fuck_. Please don't let this guy be Columbian.

Desmond slid off the bed and dressed slowly, clumsily. "Just… don't shoot me," he said. "I really don't want that experience again."

"Then don't cause me any trouble. Now _apresuras_," and he motioned with his gun. Desmond grabbed the cane and he hobbled out of the hospital bed. When he got out into the hall the man put the gun snug against his back so he didn't try anything, yet was concealed, and he swallowed. They started walking down the hall. Thankfully Desmond couldn't feel his leg.

He was never so relieved to see a mobster than when Altair come out of the elevators at the end of the hall. But he didn't seem to see the either of them and walked right past. Desmond cursed to himself. Of course. He bet he was in on it.

A lot happened all at once. One was that the gunman cried out, shoving Desmond so he fell onto the tile. He twisted around in time to see Altair materialize over the gunman, and wrestle him. They grappled a moment then Altair grabbed the gun out of his head and smashed it into his face a few times to knock him out and destroy his nose.

Panting, Altair stood back up and looked at him. Desmond stared back and then Altair was in motion and knealing next to him, practically sliding into him. "Are you okay?" he asked and his concern seemed genuine.

"Yeah," he said thickly, freaked out. "Yeah I'm fine," he promised since Altair looked just as freaked as he did.

"You're sure?" he pushed.

"Yeah I'm sure. I'm fine, just… I think I'm going into shock again," he said breathlessly. "That was amazing," he added.

"But you're okay?"

"Yeah, god do I have to say it a forth time?" he asked.

"Okay… okay," Altair visibly had to calm himself down. They both looked when the gunman groaned. "Lets get you back into bed, yeah?" Desmond nodded and Altair helped Desmond up. He had to lean heavily on Altair though as his leg was smarting badly. They walked past the downed gunman and Altair helped Desmond back into bed. "How's your leg?" he asked.

"Hurts," Desmond whined. "These pants aren't helping," he added.

"Fucking idiot," and then Altair swore a bit in Russian, it was sort of hot. Desmond liked hearing him talk in Russian actually, he did sometimes when Desmond was annoying him. "Please tell me you're wearing underwear," he said.

"I'm not a heathan, thanks," Desmond said.

"Okay, good," and Altair unbottoned his pants and pulled them off him. Desmond was bleeding from his leg again. "Shit," he cursed more in Russian. "I'll get a nurse, just… don't move, okay?"

"Okay," Desmond said.

Altair looked at him with a frown, "You sure you're okay?" he asked again and pressed his hand to the side of Desmond's face.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he promised.

Altair's lips went thin a moment and then he was up and out the door and he heard Altair calling for a nurse, or a doctor through the open door. Then he heard him speaking in Russian, probably into his phone and Desmond could imagine him fumbling with it and he smiled to himself. Altair was totally technology illiterate and more than once in the past two weeks he'd helped Altair with his phone.

A nurse came in, seeming shaken, but she did what she was supposed to and took care of him. She dressed his leg, gave him something for the pain, and then put him to sleep because Desmond was still sort of freaking out. He was glad for the sleep and the last thing he saw was Altair in the doorway, looking in.

—

The next time Desmond woke it was dark out and light from the street lights slanted in through the blinds. Altair was sleeping in a chair against the door. He _really_ had to pee. With a grunt he put his legs over the side of the bed grabbed the cane and hobbled to the bathroom.

As he was washing his hands he heard a slightly panicked, "Desmond?" Altair didn't bother to call him Mark anymore. Desmond opened the bathroom door, letting it swing open, so Altair knew he was in there. Worked because Altair didn't call him again.

When he was back in bed Altair helped put his legs right. "So," Desmond said to the replacement-scary-hot-enforcer-who-made-Benny-pay-his-dues Altair, "Who was that guy?"

"Columbian hitman," Altair said without emotion.

Desmond groaned, "Does my dad know?"

"Not sure. I told my boss. He's handling affairs."

"You were sleeping against the door."

"Yeah. There are two other guys outside now," he added.

"Lovely. I give it three days until my family knows. They know everything," he sighed. "There is going to be some hell to pay for whichever cartel decided they wanted a piece of me." And now they didn't even have him as a hostage to stay his father's hand. His father hadn't gotten to where he was after their gandpa died by not inacting swift, meriless retribution like the smiting hand of god, when someone did something against him. Several people were going to die for this.

"Yeah," Altair said.

Desmond gave a deep sigh, "Okay," he said tiredly.

"How do you feel?"

"Like shit."

Altair smirked, "I figured," and since when had Altair been sitting on his bed? He didn't remember that happening during this conversation. "Should we anticipate another visit from you brother?" he asked.

"Probably'd be a good idea. Few days though at least. First they need to hear about it, once they've decided who did it I don't doubt we'll be getting a visit from my brother and some very scary guys in very expensive suits. Even scarier than you."

Altair blinked, "I'm scary?" he asked.

"Oh yeah," Desmond must have been high on some drugs for what came out of his mouth next, "So scary it makes my dick do weird things."

"I think that was a compliment," Altair said.

"It was," and Desmond _was_ drugged after all so he officially had no filter about this shit.

"You're not very good at complimenting people," Altair informed him.

"What you want some that are more flattering?" Desmond asked.

"Uh-

"I like it when you talk Russian." Altair asked him a question, in Russian, and it was really unfair for his voice to sound like that. "Fuck you," he grumbled. Altair said something else in Russian. "That's not fair, speak English," but Altair just smirked, and more Russian and Desmond was suddenly hyper aware of Altair's hand on his thigh and how suddenly how close their faces were. How close _they_ were. "You're an asshole and know exactly what you're doing don't you?" he said, eyes narrowing shrewdly at him.

"Mmm, probably," Altair said and good god Desmond wouldn't mind kissing him at all. He was pretty sure that was just the drugs talking. "Oh really?"

"Shit… I said that out loud didn't I?" he stammered.

"You did," Altair laughed.

There was a very still silence, Desmond looked at the the mobster and was stared back at in like. An entire minute passed, "Well?" Desmond asked, not quite demanding, "Are you?"

Altair licked his lips and clearly was staring at his mouth along with his eyes. "I could get into a lot of trouble," he said.

"With who?"

"You are a Miles," he reminded Desmond. Like he could forget.

"Exactly," Desmond said.

"You don't seem overly concerned," Altair said.

"My first time was with a Polish spy," Desmond said straight faced. He _wished_ he was lying too. Altair stared at him. "I am a Miles," he said.

"How does your family even work?"

"However we want," Desmond said. "So are you, or you just going to keep staring at my mouth?"

"I'm looking at your bandage-

"You're so full of shit," Desmond informed him.

"Just a little," Altair agreed and leaned over and kissed the right side of Desmond's mouth. It was really sweet actually that Altair didn't want to further wreck his face. But then it was probably in his interest for Desmond's face to not be wrecked. It didn't last very long, but that was okay, it was still nice. "Get some sleep, I'll deal with this in the morning," he told Desmond.

"Only if you'll be here when I wake up," Desmond said.

"I will be," Altair promised and kissed him gently again. He could get used to this, the kissing thing, it was pretty damn awesome. "Want me to call a nurse?" Desmond shook his head. "Okay. Sleep now Mark," Altair smirked at him.

"Screw you," Desmond said, Altair just chuckled and Desmond leaned back in bed and closed his eyes as Altair went back to the chair.

—

Desmond got a week to mentally prepare himself. A week before his family finally showed up and a week of memorizing the feel of Altair's mouth. He'd been expecting it to only be a few days but Altair said his boss was trying to keep it hushed up so they didn't become the people who almost got the youngest Miles boy taken hostage. But like Desmond knew they'd find out. It just took longer than expected. Altair was with him constantly, saying he didn't trust anyone else to watch him. He was sure it was that, but also because he was emotionally invested in him now.

A week later Desmond woke up to his brother standing at the end of his bed. Altair was in his chair looking put upon and irritated about everything. "Hey bro," Duncan said with a smile, he was wearing some facial hair a bit longer than scruff now. Damn his brother for being able to pull off facial hair and Desmond couldn't.

"No scary men in Italian suits," Desmond said, still slightly out of it, they'd given him something strong last night. He'd been having trouble sleeping.

Duncan looked at him and then looked behind him at Altair, "You got an equally scary guard dog," he said and rose his brows at Altair who just glowered at him.

"Yeah he is," Desmond grinned a little. "Saved my ass too," he made sure to point out."

"So I heard," Duncan was only mildly impressed. "You're coming home. No arguments. No buts. No nothing. Got it?"

Desmond sighed, "Okay."

"Good. Ma's been worried _sick_ since she found out about what happened. So even if you were actually okay you'd be coming home for her."

"When's that been since?" Desmond asked, not arguing about the thing with their mother.

"Two days ago."

"You figure out who did it yet?"

"No. Not yet. We will though," Duncan said darkly. Desmond felt almost sorry for the Columbians now. You didn't mess with the Miles family unless you wanted to see what hell looked like. But at the same time fuck them, they'd tried to kidnap him.

"When are we leaving?"

"As soon as you woke up," Duncan said and put his hands in his pockets. "Can you get dressed?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

"Okay. Get dressed, if you need a wheelchair-

"No-

"Just come outside when you're done," Duncan grinned, enjoying Desmond's denial. He was walking out of this fucking hospital on his own two feet, he _refused_ to leave in a wheelchair.

"Okay," Desmond said. Duncan left, Altair opened the door for him. "Well…" he huffed. "Do I have clothes?" he asked Altair.

"You're brother brought some," Altair said and gave him a small bag. Desmond opened it and it was nice clothes, all his size. At least Duncan wasn't making him put on a suit. "Need some help?"

He thought about saying no. "Yeah," he nodded. Desmond slid off the bed and while he could stand and walk on his own it was always painful. He needed that damn cane, or a big, attractive, middle eastern to lean against. He went with the second option. As usual.

Altair stood behind him and helped him put on his jeans, and maybe his hands wandered a little along the way. Though he didn't need it he also helped Desmond with his shirt, buttoning it up for him from behind him as easily as he would button his own. He could feel Altair's breath on his neck and when the mobster had finished with the buttons he tugged on the hem of the shirt in the front and back so it settled on his frame, hands drifting briefly against skin he'd never be able to actually touch. That's what made this so attractive honestly, that Altair _couldn't_ touch. One because Desmond was in the hospital, and two because Altair was part of the Russian mob, and Desmond was a Miles. It wouldn't work out very well.

Dressed Altair handed him the stupid cane as he stepped away. Desmond hated it, but it was use this, be in pain, or the wheelchair. He refused the wheelchair and he hated pain so the cane it was. "I feel like an old man," Desmond said and pantomimed being a decrepit old man with a cane. Altair chuckled.

"Trust me, you aren't," he said.

"Good to know," and Desmond straightened up. "Goodbye," he said when they walked to the door.

"Goodbye," Altair agreed and didn't help Desmond leave the room other than opening the door for him and closeing it after him, though didn't follow..

Duncan was waiting out in the hall with three scary men in Italian suits. "Ready?" his brother asked.

"Yes," Desmond nodded.

"Good. You don't need a whe-

"I will fucking hit you with this is you finish that sentence," Desmond threatened his brother, waving said cane at him.

Duncan just laughed, "Okay. C'mon my poor, crippled, baby brother," he said. "We're going home."

"Yaa," Desmond said blandly. Duncan led him out of the hospital to a car with blacked out windows. They got in, and drove away.

-fin-

* * *

the next 'chapter' is an alternate ending. This is 'officially' where the story stops though.


	2. Alternate ending

Jeremy was a good boy, really he was. He was an average annoying three year old, but he was a good boy who liked playing with robots and Barbie dolls (something William disapproved of but Duncan said to fuck off about) and pretending he was a horse. Desmond had been at home for nearly a year now. One because he couldn't stand to see his ma freak out if he said he was leaving, and two because after what had happened last time he was pretty freaked out by it.

He was living with his parents, Duncan and Kate had a house on the other side of the property (which you had to drive to) and they liked leaving Jeremy with Desmond to baby sit. But he was getting restless. Everyone knew it, even his ma. He'd be leaving soon, he'd been talking about it with his dad. He just… wasn't ready to do this yet. He didn't know if he ever would be honestly.

William didn't like the idea of Desmond leaving again, but Desmond, and Duncan actually, had talked him into it. Daddy could protect him all he wanted, but he couldn't make Desmond a prisoner in his own home. The idea that Desmond live with Duncan and Kate for a while, just to see, but that was about the last thing Desmond wanted to do as they were trying for another baby. He didn't want to be in the same house he was sure his brother and sister-in-law had fornicated all over.

So, Desmond could leave. There was a condition clause though. Desmond wasn't the best fighter, and that had been made painfully obvious last year after what those Irish thugs had done, and then the Columbian- Desmond didn't know who had done it still, or what had happened to them, and really he didn't want to know. The idea of knowing scared the shit out him- who'd tried to take him hostage. The condition clause was that Desmond would have a body guard and he'd let William give him a credit card attached to the Miles' accounts since after he'd seen where Desmond had been living- single room apartment that needed to be gassed for roaches every few months, with a bathroom with a slight mildew problem- he'd been horrified and said to get himself a _better_ apartment.

Those were the conditions for Desmond's 'release' and after talking with Duncan knew they were the best he'd ever get. He'd never be entirely off the leash ever again, because now people knew who he was, what he looked like. Others might come and try to take him if he was out of daddy's protective reach. So he took the conditions, because he wanted to get the fuck out of there.

For the past month his dad had been interviewing body guards. Desmond didn't have a say, because he didn't know what made a good one. Instead he busied himself by playing with Jeremy, climbing trees, bothering his brother, riding horses, and other general messing around because staying still and being inside was the last thing he wanted to do. He was getting bored here on the Farm, though he liked the horses, and the ATVs, and he and Duncan had gone hunting in the fall. But he was restless and bored and needed to see the world.

He was just waiting on his dad to pick his fucking body guard and then he could get on his dad's stupid private jet and fuck off to wherever he wanted. He was thinking to leave the country again. Go across the Atlantic, Spain maybe, or Italy. He heard Italy was pretty, the Italians back at Benny's had always bragged about how beautiful their country was. Actually, maybe not Italy, there was an active mob there. Spain sounded better, or maybe France. He didn't know, he'd figure it out though.

Apparently William had picked someone, so Duncan told him, there were just some lose ends to clean up and get sorted out. Today he was supposed to meet his body guard though. Good. He couldn't wait to _leave_ and pretend the guy following him didn't exist. So he was playing with Jeremy until he showed up, with his Barbie dolls and his Avengers action figures and his Hotwheels and the seemingly endless supply of toys Jeremy had. Desmond remembered that, endless supply of toys, but no one to play with but his brother and his ma, who only played sometimes, or his manny, who was _so_ not into playing with children.

Desmond looked up when the door open, Duncan was there. "Hey," Desmond said, "what is it?"

"Body guard's here, come say hello," Duncan said.

"Right. Be right back Jeremy," he told his nephew who nodded and crashed two of his Hotwheels together. "So is he good?"

"Came highly recomended apparently," Duncan said with a grin. "You'll like him."

"I doubt it," Desmond rolled his eyes.

"You might," Duncan said.

"Is he big and scary?"

"Oh yeah. They were all big and scary," he reminded Desmond.

"Yeah they are. He speaks English right?"

"He speaks three languages, including English, which is his first," Duncan said.

"Oh good. You know I have _no_ patience for people who can't speak good English," now he was rethinking Spain, he knew Spanish, but he didn't want to be a guy to have an awful American accent there. Though he was sure they saw it all the time, but…

"Who does?" Duncan asked. "Right inside," he said showing Desmond to a door.

"You coming in?"

"He asked to meet you privately first," Duncan shrugged.

"That isn't weird?"

"Not really. Me and dad have already met him and talked to him a lot anyway. Really no reason for me to be there," he shrugged.

"Right…

"What don't want to be alone with your new big, scary, body guard?"

"Fuck you, I'm a grown man," Desmond informed him. Duncan chuckled and Desmond went in, screw his brother.

Only once he'd closed the door did he really look around. He blinked a few times in surprise. His body guard smiled at him. "Hello," he said.

"How the hell did you manage this?" Desmond asked, walking over to him slowly. Honestly he'd sort of written it off. It had been a weird situation months ago and honestly he hadn't thought about it much to be quite honest. Yet… Altair was sitting on a chair in an expensive suit. Altair smirked, "Aren't you with the Russians?"

"I was," he agreed.

"_Was_?"

"I left them. I liked watching out for people more then shaking them down. Thanks for showing me I liked that more by the way," Altair said and stood up. He was still big and scary, but Desmond wasn't scared.

"And my dad knows this?"

"Oh yeah," Altair nodded.

"What _else_ does he know?" Desmond asked, eyeing him as he stood in front of his new body gaurd.

"That I was on duty most of the time while you were in the hospital. And that I saved you from the hitman. And that I'd… tell him some things."

"Russian things?"

"Yes. Nothing to compromise them, but to help give him a larger edge," Altair smirked, "I think he liked me."

"My dad doesn't like anyone, it must have been a clone," Desmond assured him. Then Desmond put his hands behind his back, "So, I heard you come highly reccomended."

"I do. My last employer was the New York mayor, watching his teenage daughter."

"Wow."

"So you wont be able to lose me. She tried very hard and never did."

"What makes you think I'd want to?"

"Because you're stubborn and don't want your family's help," Altair said.

"No need to give my parents a heart attack by ditching my body guard," Desmond said. "Also, can you speak Spanish?" Altair shook his head, "So what? Duncan said you speak three languages."

"English, Arabic, and Russian."

"That's really hot," Desmond said, not even sorry. Altair said something in Russian. "And _really_ unfair," he added. More Russian, Altair was watching his face intently as he spoke. "You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?" he asked.

"Maybe a little," Altair agreed.

"So you going to stop staring at my mouth or what?" Desmond asked.

"Or what?"

Desmond rolled his eyes, "You know."

"I might," Altair agreed and leaned over to him. It was just as nice to kiss Altair this time as it was the first time.

"Five bucks said you took this job to get into my pants," Desmond said.

"Not going to take that bet."

"Why not?" Desmond asked, grinning, their lips and faces close.

"I'd lose."

"Convince me," Desmond said and stepped away from him, "Now though! I need to pack. Now that you're here I'm leaving."

"Where are we going?" Altair asked.

"I was thinking Spain," Desmond said.

"Want me to help you?" Altair asked him.

"You need to pack too."

"Right," Altair said and Desmond was only half sure that packing would only have started off as packing. He was trying really hard to mind that his body guard also wanted to get in his pants. It wasn't working very well.

"Pack some bags, we're going to leave as soon as possible."

"Such as?"

"Tomorrow if possible."

"Ah, I'll get to work then," Altair said.

"Do you want me to show you out?" Desmond asked as they left the room.

"No, I think I got it," Altair nodded and walked past him. Desmond gave a half yelp half squeak as Altair walked past and firmly grabbed his ass. Altair didn't look back at him though. Okay, he was going to actually like having a body guard.


End file.
